


Phoenix

by rudbeckia



Series: After the last [2]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Badass Phasma, Emotional Manipulation, Hux is Not Nice, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Character Death, Murder, Post-TLJ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-02-25 17:56:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13217922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudbeckia/pseuds/rudbeckia
Summary: ”I want you,” said General Hux, “to kill the traitor, Kylo Ren.”It takes a lot more than a traitor wielding a riot control baton to kill Captain Phasma. She’s injured, pulled almost dead from the inferno that tried to claim her aboardThe Supremacyand taken toThe Finalizerfor treatment on General Hux’s orders.She is alive and on the warpath against traitors like FN2187 and, according to General Hux, the new Supreme Leader.Phasma finds an ally in one of Hux’s former personal assistants and, together, they become Hux’s personal weapon. Until Kylo Ren interferes.( It might help to read my most recent previous fic first:Long Live the Supreme Leaderbut you don’t have to. Go on, it’s not very long.)





	1. Traitors

Phasma jerked and gasped, a sound muted from the scream in her dreams, hurling her out of sleep and into a world were she survived. Only the lights on her medidroid hinted that she had made any sound. She lay still, and the red blinking was soon replaced by the steady green glow that meant she was not in immediate danger. Reaching a hand up to wipe the sweat from her forehead and push the ticklish strand of hair from her face provided Phasma with a brutal reminder of recent events. The hand that she raise to sweep backwards from her brow and over the top of her head simply was not there. Phasma cursed violently and thumped her shoulders back against the thin padding of the medical trolley she lay on, causing the medidroid to blink red and hover over to her side.

“Please lie still to facilitate rapid healing.”

Phasma made a deep, guttural sound in her throat, then forced calm on herself. After several minutes of controlled breathing, just when the medidroid was losing interest in administering a sedative, she spoke. In an even, authoritative voice, Phasma demanded, “Bring me my prostheses.”

The medidroid complied—this was within the permitted patient requests. General Hux had been clear that any reasonable action that would speed up Phasma’s return to active service was to be encouraged, and improving her ability to interact smoothly with her new limbs counted, in the medidroid’s limited opinion. Had the auxiliary medidroid been online instead of recharging silently in its cubby, the medidroid would have beeped and whistled that the beautifully engineered, chromed robotic arms and legs were far more useful, hard-wearing and adaptable than their weak, soft, flesh and bone equivalents. After all, falling into the raging inferno of a ruptured fuel conduit that burned the human-type’s arms and legs to ash would have barely taken the shine off a well-made set of prosthetics. The auxiliary would have agreed.

Fitting the prosthetics took time and Phasma tutted impatiently at the rigorous series of checks and adjustments that the medidroid insisted were non-negotiable. They began with her right arm. Despite her _feeling_ that she was holding her arm out at right angles to her side from her shoulder, the stump remained stubbornly in place until the ‘droid moved it for her. She’d reacted so badly to the defiance of her remaining flesh the first time she’d been asked to hold her arm out for a fitting that the medidroid explained in rapid monotone:

_This is to be expected. Please do not be alarmed. Your nerve impulses are functional. Your muscle has no anchor and cannot move the remnant of your original appendage. The prosthetic will integrate with your nervous system and respond as you would expect your original limb to respond. Please remain still. Please allow me to perform my duty uninterrupted._

Phasma watched this time rather than throwing her entire upper body to knock the medidroid away as if it was an interrogation droid. Her initial terror and fury at her injuries—she knew what became of incapacitated stormtroopers under her command—had been replaced by a grim understanding of her situation, then muted hope that she would once more be a favourite amongst General Hux’s chosen officers. His visits had been few in number and short in duration, but they spoke of his high regard for her and his investment in her future loyalty.

Eventually, the medidroid hovered back and announced that she was to attempt to walk. Phasma sat on the edge of the bed and flexed her new arms and legs. The arms felt heavy, dragging at the muscles of her shoulders, but physical work would strengthen her. She would do this, she determined. Already her new arms felt like they had always been part of her. She would become stronger than before, able to run faster, fight harder. She slid off the bed onto her numb, alloy feet and landed face down on the floor with a cry of alarm.

Phasma looked up at the medidroid, hovering just out of reach. “Help me, you mechanical moron.”  
“No,” replied the ‘droid. “Please get up.”  
Repeating the command made no difference to the medidroid, and Phasma balled her fist and punched the floor. She left a satisfying dent in the durasteel floor panel.  
“Very good,” said the ‘droid. “You are gaining conscious and unconscious control of your prostheses. I recommend that you restrict your activities to low-impact training that will focus on improving your agility and fine control of your new appendages.”  
Phasma glared at it. One deliberate action at a time, she put her hands flat on the floor under her shoulders and straightened her new arms until she arched back from the hips in a half-pushup. She winced, but the stretch felt good. Next, she pushed back so that she was on all fours, then closed her eyes and remembered how it felt to pull her right knee up and put her toes on the floor beneath her. An encouraging beep from the ‘droid made her growl, but when she looked her foot was exactly where she had imagined putting it. Slowly, deliberately, hand hovering close to the steady frame of the trolley that had been her bed for some as yet undetermined period of time, Phasma pushed herself upright. When she saw what she had done, she almost fell over again.

Somehow, it was easier with her eyes closed. When she could not see the actuators in her joints, Phasma could imagine she was walking on her own legs and reaching out with her own arms, perhaps with skin-senses dulled by cold. Phasma took a few, wobbly steps around her bed and stopped, straightened up, bent her knees a little and relaxed her hips, then tried again. The ‘droid beeped and whistled and she told it to shut up.

“I need to practise fine control of my finger movements. Bring me my blaster.”

If a medidroid could look worried, this one did. Phasma stared at it. “I order you to bring me a blaster.”  
“Blasters are not permitted in medical rooms.”  
Phasma walked a few more steps and held her hands up in front of the medidroid. It hovered back a little.  
“My primary function involves the use of hand weapons. I must be allowed to train for my primary function. I require the use of a blaster to reach my full operational functionality.”  
“Blasters are not—“  
“—Are you refusing to allow me to train?” Phasma kept her voice calm although she wanted to scream at the stupid machine. “General Hux will surely have you deactivated for that. You are to see that I am fit for active service. To be fit for active service I need to be able to use a blaster. Bring me a blaster.”  
The medidroid searched for reasons to deny or to allow. The General’s orders had been clear, but there had been no direct prohibition on the patient using a blaster, other than the guideline that weapons were not permitted in medical facilities.  
“Blasters—“  
“—Do you want to be sent into a mining facility? Perhaps General Hux will see fit to reassign you to—“  
“I will request that a blaster be brought to you for training purposes.”

The medidroid retreated to its charging point but remained active. Phasma practised movements that had once been automatic. Walking she picked up easily despite missing the sensory feedback from living skin. Balance was harder: she needed the security of the bedframe under (but not touching) her hand to be confident about standing on one leg, and turning on the spot took concentration. She was surprised not to ache from the two hours of effort she put in, then she realised that her artificial bones and muscles and tendons were not supplied with pain sensors and did not build up any waste products that had to be flushed away by oxygenated blood. Once she understood that she could push herself without fear of torn muscles or pulled ligaments, Phasma doubled her efforts and accepted that her human shoulder and core muscles would ache later.

By the time a pair of stormtroopers delivered a pair of blasters for her training, Phasma was confidently pacing the medbay. She started with the simplest-looking model: a pistol designed for easy use with either hand. She examined it first then picked it up with difficulty in one hand then curled the other around the grip, fitting her finger over the trigger on the sixth attempt. She whirled to face the medidroid and staggered as her arm came up at shoulder height, pointing the weapon. The ‘droid beeped in alarm.  
“Don’t worry,” she said with a smile. “There’s no power cell. Neither of these can be fired. Now, dodge.”

Phasma repeated the same action over and over until she could pivot and aim the pistol without losing her balance. The larger but more familiar F11-D blaster rifle she found easier to handle (it had been her weapon of choice although her own matched her chrome) especially once she took the ‘droid’s nervous advice to put on her helmet and let its visualiser unit enhance the signal from the cybernetic eye that replaced her own left eye, unprotected from the explosion after the Traitor damaged her old helmet. When the medbay door hissed open unexpectedly, her reaction of turn, drop and aim was almost automatic. She lowered the blaster rifle as soon as she recognised her visitor.

“Phasma! You seem to have made an excellent recovery. The medidroid reports say that you are fit to resume duties.” Hux smiled. “How do you feel?”

She asked questions about the fate of the Traitor, and Hux answered with smiles and evasion until he got to the point of his visit. Hux ordered the medidroid to deactivate then took a deep breath and looked her in the eyepieces of her helmet.  
“Kylo Ren has betrayed us,” said Hux in a matter-of-fact tone, “and murdered the Supreme leader in a treacherous attempt to usurp Snoke’s throne.”  
Phasma frowned under her helmet, unable for a moment to believe that anyone could best the Supreme Leader that few spoke of, General Hux crawled to and Kylo Ren bowed before.  
“Sir?”  
“I want you,” said Hux low and clear, “to kill the traitor Kylo Ren. You do not have to act immediately. Take your time and plan carefully because he is powerful enough to have broken Captain Opan. I will put at your disposal any resources you need.”  
Phasma nodded, clutching the useless blaster across her middle, glad to have the helmet to conceal her face from Hux. There was only one response she could give before Hux left, satisfied.

“Yes, sir.”

Phasma stood rock still and thought over what Hux had just revealed.  
_You owe Hux. Do this and he will owe you. He took you into his confidence when he was ready to rise from under Brendol’s shade—and he brought you with him. He saw your potential and wanted to use all of your skills. He could get rid of you like we got rid of Cardinal when he became disloyal. But you don’t owe Kylo Ren anything. Kylo Ren is dangerous and unpredictable. Hux could be Supreme Leader with you in command of his personal army._

She would do it. Phasma would remove the traitor Kylo Ren, see Armitage Hux in power, become the most feared of his personal advisors and _then_ hunt down that other traitor, FN2187. But first, Phasma wanted to know what she was up against. She sent one message to Hux.

_I will need top level manual security codes to complete my mission. I am sure you are aware that my biometrics no longer give me access to essential information and I assume this is an oversight on the part of your security team._

A reply came almost immediately, direct from Hux’s personal comlink. She set about researching her task, leaving the medidroids disabled, reasoning that the medbay was one place she could work unimpeded. She sliced the data terminal that served as a link to the main medical database and, through it, found a route to the information she needed. As she worked, Phasma frowned deeper. Many of the files she wanted to see opened with her new codes, but those she recovered as partial, deleted files, remained stubbornly encrypted. It was the missing data that Phasma considered the most vital: before she could kill Kylo Ren, she had to know how Kylo Ren had killed Snoke.

It took some hours, time that Phasma’s organic parts needed anyway to rest from her physical exertions, but Phasma found a way in. The Praetorian Guard (Phasma briefly smiled as she imagined herself in red armour standing beside Supreme Leader Hux with a double-ended plasma-enhanced vibroblade lance) recorded everything they saw and one guard’s helmet holorecorder’s receiver antenna had been damaged before their upload command had been overridden. She could watch what happened on _The Supremacy_ through someone else’s eyes.

What Phasma saw made her step back from the terminal. She snatched her own helmet off and searched inside for a holorecorder unit. Sure enough, the feed from her eyepieces led not only to the connections for her cybernetic eye (and hence trickled data into the remains of her left optic nerve) but to a holorecorder designed to lie flush against the inside of her helmet. Hux would soon know that she had seen Kylo Ren in traitorous acts: disobeying a direct order from Snoke, _somehow_ killing his master then taking up arms against the Praetorian Guard _with the rebel girl by his side!_ Not only was Ren guilty of murdering the Supreme Leader, but he had fought alongside an enemy of the First Order in the process.

When the thought of changing loyalties to stand dressed in red beside Supreme Leader Kylo Ren flashed through her head, Phasma suppressed it. Kylo Ren was strong, but could not be trusted. Kylo Ren owed her nothing.

Next, Phasma needed Captain Opan. General Hux had described him as _broken_ by Kylo Ren. She assumed that Hux meant Opan was injured physically, after seeing evidence of Kylo Ren fighting the Praetorian Guard two or three at a time and killing them in a violent skirmish. But Opan’s personal logs told her nothing—files that should have been packed with coded entries detailing his routine activities and special assignments were completely blank and she could not recover any deleted data. She would have to find Opan himself and get the information she required from him directly. Phasma put in a requisition for two power cells and practised handling the unloaded weapons while she waited for them to arrive. Once they did, she loaded both the F11-D rifle and the blaster pistol. The rifle clipped to the chromed skeleton of her new leg just as her old one had clipped to her armour. The pistol she slotted into a hip holster and laid on her trolley.

Phasma reactivated the medidroid and said sharply, “Bring my armour.”  
“Your damaged armour and clothing has been destroyed,” replied the medidroid, then it beeped a short sequence and its assistant woke from its long recharge. “General Hux ordered that if you want it you are to be provided with a synthskin covering then refitted with—”  
“Will synthskin protect my prostheses?” Phasma demanded.  
“Synthskin offers slight sensory feedback, a human-like appearance, protection against dust—“  
“I don’t need it. Bring whatever remains of my armour, and a bodysuit.”  
The medidroid indicated a hamper in the corner of the room. Phasma walked over and retrieved her scored and charred armour. She examined each piece: the body sections were salvageable, although dented and in bad need of polish. The gauntlets, forearm, boots and lower leg plates were missing, and the thigh and upper arm pieces were so twisted that they were only suitable for feeding into a synthicator as raw material for a new suit. Phasma dropped those pieces back into the hamper. She could do without them. The helmet she threw across the room with a roar of anger that the Traitor had damaged it and caused her to fall.

When she turned back to the trolley, a clean bodysuit waited for her. She took a set of surgical shears from the medidroid’s implement rack and got to work. The end result was a little rough but serviceable. Phasma pulled off the medical robe she had been wearing and put on her new garment. All her pale, pink-scarred skin was covered with soft, black fabric then she worked on getting the chrome buffed to as good a shine as she could manage with the cut-off arms and legs of the bodysuit. She held up the breastplate to examine the abrasions on it surface then dropped it with a sharp intake of breath. Closing her eyes for a few seconds and calming her breathing, slowly she reached down and picked it up again. Phasma closed her eyes again and brought the reflective surface back in front of her face. She would look. She would see what she had become.

Taking another deep breath, Phasma opened her eyes and stared at her own face, familiar still in places. She examined herself: the top of her scarred scalp with its occasional tufts of fine blonde hair; the left eye still blue but an unnaturally deep shade with an iris that shifted and spiralled as her focus changed; her left forehead and cheek starred with scar tissue from where the fire reached through the hole in her broken helmet and marked her.

The medidroid beeped politely before it spoke. “General Hux ordered that you are to be offered reconstructive surgery at a later time, should you desire it. Would you like me to schedule—”  
“No!” Phasma smiled and her reflection gave a lopsided grimace. “I earned each scar as a warrior. Nobody will take them away.”

Phasma fitted her remaining armour and used the data terminal again to locate Captain Opan. Surprisingly, he was not in a medbay but his code had just been used to order preparation of a troop transit with full ration supplies for twenty stormtroopers for an extended field operation. Phasma frowned at the order—there was no corresponding order for the deployment of twenty stormtroopers. Phasma reached one conclusion quickly: Captain Tritt Opan was running away and she had to stop him.

The medbay doors opened for her. Phasma ordered the two stormtroopers guarding the door to follow her to hangar four, and when they arrived Captain Opan was striding across the hangar deck, looking neither right nor left. She marched to intercept and barked an order at her stormtroopers.  
_”Hold that officer. He is a traitor!”_  
Opan heard. He halted, turned and stared. “What the... _Phasma?_ But you... they reported you d—”  
“Traitor!” Phasma felt her anger bubble up. “Coward! Deserter!”  
Opan shook his head and took a step back, hand hovering near his blaster. “What? No! How did you—“  
“Unimportant.” Phasma fired and Opan’s blaster flew from his grip. “Stormtroopers, take this deserter scum to the interrogation rooms.”

Opan offered no further resistance. Phasma marched behind him with her blaster on his back, a stormtrooper on either side, until they reached the nearest interrogation room. She ordered the stormtroopers to secure Opan in the chair and then wait outside. Once the door closed, Phasma removed her helmet, turned it to face away from Opan and watched his complexion blanch at the sight of her damaged face. She smiled without humour.  
“Well, Captain Opan. I need to know _exactly_ what you think you are running _from.”_


	2. Loyalties

Phasma watched Opan’s face. His staring eyes and fixed expression were very out of character. This was General Hux’s preferred assassin and she had never seen him so close to giving up everything. She kicked the interrogation chair to turn it towards her, and raised her voice.  
“I demand to know why you are preparing to desert.”  
“I wasn’t!” Opan’s voice rose in pitch, then he took a slow breath, sucked his lips, swallowed and spoke more clearly. “I am not a deserter.”  
“You ordered a fully supplied troop transport without the troops. There are enough rations on board to keep you alive for weeks. Where were you going?”  
“Nowhere! I—“  
“LIAR!” Phasma kicked the chair again so hard that it rattled on its bolts. Opan shrank into it.  
“Phasma, listen to me. I am not deserting the First Order but I have requested a leave of absence until Hux consents to have me reassigned.” Opan took a deep breath. “I will accept whatever post he decides is appropriate.”  
“Banthashit!” spat Phasma. “You’re ambitious. You would slink along like Hux’s shadow until you saw your own opportunity to advance. You _will_ tell me what you were doing, one way or another.” Phasma flexed her new fingers in front of Opan’s face, the gleaming chromed phalanges dancing in front of his eyes, then laid one cold, skeletal hand on his cheek. “You know my methods are effective.”

Phasma watched Opan for a few seconds. He closed his eyes and visibly sagged. She would get nothing from him with threats of violence: he looked like he would suffer pain as a distraction and welcome death as a relief. She used a new approach.  
“Very well. I admit that I need your help. Will you answer my questions if I promise not to prevent your departure?”  
Opan sat up as far as he could in the chair. “Not until you release my restraints.”  
Phasma uncuffed Opan’s wrists and ankles. He rubbed his hands and arms.  
“Kylo Ren. I am running from Kylo Ren.”  
That made Phasma frown. “But General Hux ordered you to dispose of Kylo Ren. Are you telling me you couldn’t do it?” Opan looked at his hands. Phasma shook her head. “I have seen you poison blustering old Imperials who looked back at the Empire through rose-tinted quadnocs. I have witnessed you strangle a lieutenant-general with delusions of grandeur after she campaigned openly against Hux. I have personally redacted records of your blaster status log when Admiral A’Corano died in a freak power cell explosion after Hux found out he’d tried to prevent him from gaining command of _The Finalizer.”_ Phasma stooped to face Opan, hands on the arms of the chair, eyes level. “So my question is this: why is Kylo Ren still so stubbornly alive that General Hux needs _me_ back from the dead to kill him for you?”

Opan shook his head and pointed to his temple. “Kylo Ren has been inside here helping himself to my memories so many times that I barely know what’s real any more. I have to get out of his reach or I will be of no further use to General Hux. You’re going after Supreme Leader Kylo Ren?” Phasma nodded and Opan snorted out a laugh. “Good luck.”  
Phasma frowned more deeply and moved her face closer to Opan’s. “Perhaps you’re just a weak coward.”  
“Believe whatever you want, Phasma,” replied Opan, relaxing back into the chair again. “You’re officially dead anyway. When Armitage seduces you, fucks you and sends you to Kylo Ren so that the Supreme Leader can take that particular experience from you second-hand, you can think back on this offer and regret turning it down.“ Opan sat forward again and held Phasma’s disconcerting gaze. “Come with me. I will not face Kylo Ren again but you must and I can help you avoid my fate.”  
Phasma stood up straight and stepped back. She rested her hand on her blaster as Opan slid forward and stood to face her. “Why would you offer to help me?” she asked, other hand reaching for her helmet.  
“Because I know what you are up against,” replied Opan with a shrug. “And there’s no rising from the ashes once Kylo Ren gets under your...” Opan looked at the alloy bones and mechanical joints of Phasma’s arm, “...skin.”  
Phasma’s blaster rifle was in her hands and aimed at Opan in a heartbeat. He took two steps back and raised his hands. “Phasma, you need my help,” he said quietly. “You said so yourself. Join me! We can take the transport out and discuss strategy when we’re out of range of _The Supremacy._ I promise I am loyal to the First Order, and I want to see Supreme Leader Armitage Hux in command with you and I as his... as his adjutant...” Opan pointed at himself as he said this, then at Phasma, “...and his general.”

Phasma thought for a long half-minute. She did need information from Opan on Kylo Ren’s defences, and Opan was not going to supply details without some convincing show of trust between them. Troop transports were only designed for moving stormtroopers into position rapidly for a ground assault. They had little shielding and limited weapons since they were supposed to be protected by the star destroyer from which they were deployed. If Opan wanted to hide from _The Supremacy_ then he had chosen poorly and Phasma suspected there were details of Opan’s escape plan that he was not ready to share. But if she went along with his story for now, she could get a confession out of him at leisure, kill Kylo Ren and bring Opan in for execution, earning another increment towards the title _General Phasma_ in her own way. She lowered her blaster and nodded once. “Not the troop transport,” she said. “We should be prepared to get out of range fast in case General Hux misinterprets your actions.” She walked to a data terminal set into the wall and typed a few commands. “There,” she said after a minute. “I have altered the hangar records to show that a troop transport has launched with two passengers. I have authorised preparation and launch of a captured light freighter under _Routine Inspection.”_ Phasma fitted her helmet and gestured at Opan. “Follow me.”

Hangar four was almost deserted. Phasma sent the two stormtroopers back to their medbay guard duty with orders to say nothing about her recovery. Opan and Phasma boarded the decades-old freighter and Opan immediately piloted it out of the hangar and out of range. Once safe, he sighed and activated the pilot’s holorecorder. Phasma watched him speak, with a growing sense of unease theat Opan was such a poor liar.

_General Hux, please forgive my sudden departure. I assure you that I remain loyal to the First Order and to you, but I cannot remain under the direct command of both you and the Supreme Leader. Perhaps you will consider that treason. If so I will accept whatever punishment you deem necessary. I am taking a small craft with supplies and I am going to vanish. I will order Lank to bring you this message before I go into hyperspace._

Opan turned the camera to catch Phasma in its field of view.

_As you see, I have Captain Phasma with me. She told me of your orders and after some discussion of her options she agreed to join me. We will hunt down the traitor FN2187 and the rebel scum, and obtain for you the skulls you requested from Jakku._

Opan turned off the recorder and tapped at the comms panel. “I am sending that to my assistant with an instruction to deliver it to General Hux. I need him to believe that we are running away for now. Until Kylo Ren is dead. Phasma, you have no idea what Kylo Ren is capable of and of how deeply Hux is infatuated with him. He thinks...” Opan’s words trailed off and he stared at the sparse starscape out of the front viewport. “He thinks I don’t know how he used me.”  
Phasma remained silent as Opan leaned forward with both elbows on the flight console, sank his face in his hands and shuddered. She put one awkward hand on his shoulder, a gesture that he might interpret either as comfort or threat. Opan sat up and turned to face her.  
“I know he used me but I don’t resent him for it in the least. He needed to send Kylo Ren a message to rattle him and it worked. Perhaps if I had been stronger about it...” Opan ground his palms into his eyes. “You don’t need to hear this.”  
“This is _exactly_ what I need to hear,” replied Phasma. “I want you to tell me what action you have already taken against Kylo Ren and explain to me how and why it failed. Leave out nothing.”  
Opan kept his hands over his eyes. “He knew. Kylo Ren knew what my orders were and he... he... made me _his plaything_. And when Armitage... General Hux realised this, he...”  
Phasma leaned forward when Opan stopped. She let her hand hover over his shoulder again, wondering if a show of compassion from her might be misinterpreted as a threat and cause Opan to shut down. She pulled her hand away and sat back.  
“Tell me everything, Tritt.” She sighed. “Whatever you say will go no further.”

 

Once Opan finished talking—and Phasma wondered if he would _ever_ stop—he apologised for becoming emotional, excused himself and went into the passenger compartment. Phasma followed after a few minutes and found Opan either asleep or pretending. She stood at the door, frowning.  
_I’ve got what I need. I have his confession, more or less. I could end Opan’s misery now and send General Hux my helmet holofeed. But..._  
To her surprise, Phasma found that she was reluctant to get rid of Opan. Despite his admission of having been a willing enough participant in acts he regretted, he had done it at least in part to secure Hux’s position as well as for his own advancement, and she had not (yet) been instructed to remove him. Instead, Phasma composed her own message for General Hux and sent it to him directly.

_I have taken Captain Tritt Opan out of sensor range on a captured freighter. I need information from him to plan for the successful completion of my assigned mission. Your assessment of him as “broken” is correct. He may be considering desertion but I am not—if Opan shows any sign of disloyalty to you or to the First Order, would you prefer that he be imprisoned to await trial, or executed immediately? I await further instruction in this matter. Thank you for—_

For what? For saving her life? For giving her a seemingly impossible task that had indeed broken Tritt Opan? She deleted that last, partial sentence. Her loyalty and service were her thanks, and Hux would respect and reward her success. His reply came quickly.

_“Please standby for further orders. Remain on parallel course and take no action. Confirm.”_

Phasma sent a terse acknowledgement and sat back to wait as the autopilot matched their position to that of _The Finalizer._ With Opan asleep and their stolen craft at a safe distance, Phasma allowed herself to relax for the first time since waking up screaming in medbay.

She woke with a start when the comms panel alerted her that new orders had arrived. Opan was still asleep (Phasma checked before opening the file encrypted only for her) and she watched the holoimage of General Hux speak. 

 _Captain Phasma, I am placing you in command of a two-person covert strike team. The other member is Captain Tritt Opan. Although he has more years of service in the First Order, you have experience that goes beyond military training and he will accept your superiority. Your mission objective has changed and your previous orders redacted._  

General Hux’s image smiled.

_Long live the Supreme Leader, eh? Your new orders are to seek out Grand Marshal Kalustar of The Conquest and neutralise the threat he poses to Kylo Ren’s leadership of the First Order. Please confirm._

Phasma sent an immediate response: _Orders received and understood._ She stretched her back and shoulders, yawned wide and went to wake Opan. His eyes were open and he watched her walk towards him, but made no move to rise from his bunk. Phasma stood above him.  
“New orders. We are to neutralise Kalustan of _The Conquest.”_  
“And Kylo Ren?” Opan propped himself up on one elbow. “What will you do about Kylo Ren?”  
“Long live the Supreme Leader. That is word for word what Hux said.”  
“What?” Opan sat up properly and glared at Phasma, hands clenched on his knees. “After all that? After everything he put me through? I should—“  
“Silence!” Phasma shouted the command as if Opan was a stormtrooper about to be sent for reconditioning, and she smirked at Opan’s twitch. “Do not give voice to thoughts you may regret. General Hux has put me in command. Now, unless you want me to throw you to the Supreme Leader, I suggest you get up and plan how to deal with Kalustar once I get us aboard _The Conquest.”_

Opan’s plan was simple and as close to the truth as he dared reveal, and the only disguise needed was a slight change to the rank cylinders he wore. Their jump through hyperspace was short and the wedge-shaped bulk of _The Conquest_ soon loomed in their forward viewport. Phasma handled the docking tractor and transmitted genuine clearance codes alongside newly-fabricated identities while Opan responded to the hangar captain’s demands.  
_”Unmarked freighter! Please identify and state your business._  
“Transmitting clearance code now, captain.”  
_”Identify and... Ah. I see. Um. Welcome aboard, Commandant Reevor. Will you require accommodation during your visit?”_  
Opan raised an eyebrow at Phasma. She shook her head. Opan spoke firmly to the hangar captain. “That will not be necessary. Please inform Grand Marshal Kalustar that I await his convenience in his private chambers.”  
“ _Um. Would you also like me to alert our own internal security bureau officer?”_ The captain sounded eager now. “ _In case you need any, um, assistance?”_  
Opan smiled. The hangar captain sounded like a young officer who had earned an early promotion. Perhaps _The Conquest_ had suffered heavy losses in its last battle. The thought made him feel better about their orders: if he was to remove a high-ranking member of the First Order Command Council then it was easier that the man was also an incompetent risk-taker.  
“That is not necessary. Commandant Starporter is already aware of my visit and would prefer that this matter was kept under wraps, captain, if you take my meaning.”  
_”Oh! Ah. Indeed, sir. Sorry sir. Proceed as you see fit. Um. The Grand Marshal will see you as soon as he is able. Do you require an es—”_  
“No, I am familiar with star destroyer internal layout.” Opan looked at Phasma again. She shook her head slowly, mouth set in a firm line, and Opan sighed. “Are you alone in command of your hangar this evening, captain?”  
_“I have the minimum requirement, sir. I have one stormtrooper at each entrance and one flight lieutenant on the deck in case of emergencies. There are no pilots assigned to this hangar at the moment but we are expecting to—”_  
“Excellent,” said Opan with a grim nod at Phasma. “Your superior officers must think you very competent. My own guard will assess the security of your facility, with your assistance of course.”

Phasma waited until Opan was out of the hangar then stepped off the freighter’s loading ramp dressed in white plastoid stormtrooper armour. Her prosthetic limbs shone through the gaps and she smiled inside her helmet at the way the captain and the flight lieutenant stepped back at the sight of her striding towards them. Her task of making sure the freighter slipped back out of the hangar as quietly as it had entered was going to be easier than she’d anticipated.

Opan’s progress was aided by his anonymous looks and ease in any uniform. He marched to Grand Marshal Kalustar’s quarters without a second glance from anyone and let himself in using an override code supplied by Phasma. The suite was empty and Opan used the opportunity to drip poison into a few of the containers in Kalustar’s private conservator. After a wait designed to show him his place, Kalustar arrived.  
“I was not informed that the ISB planned an external inspection,” Kalustar said with a sneer. “Please make it brief, Reevor. I have a star destroyer to command.”  
“Yes, sir,” replied Opan. “I have been ordered to investigate a small matter that requires additional clarification. Perhaps it can wait until you have more time?”  
Kalustar smoothed his uniform down and sat. “No,” he said. “I never have time. Be so good as to make caf and bring me something to eat. We can discuss whatever security issues take your fancy while I have lunch.”

Opan did not know what disgusted him more: that Kalustar held the First Order ISB in such low regard or that he treated an ISB officer, albeit a bogus one, like a servant. He smiled and nodded then did as Kalustar demanded, examining the half-finished jar of jogan fruit paste in Kalustar’s conservator to make sure the poison he’d tipped in earlier had not discoloured the purple jam. It had not, so he brought it out along with a few plain pastries that had been on the shelf. Opan watched Kalustar spread a thick layer of jam on a pastry and raise it.  
“So, a matter of security, eh?” Kalustar pointed at Opan with the corner of the pastry. “I assure you, I run a tight ship. There are no security breaches here. My own ISB officer, Commandant Starporter, is very effective.”  
“Indeed, but word is going around that you have personally sown discontent about our new Supreme Leader.” Opan sighed. “A show of solidarity would—“  
“Ridiculous!” Kalustar put his snack down and glared at Opan. “Are you telling me that the Supreme Leader can’t deal with... with a little gossip?”  
“Do you tolerate your colonels and captains questioning your competence?” Opan asked, and shook his head once as he saw Kalustar’s understanding dawn on his face.  
“I see. Well, Reevor, will you and your counterparts be visiting _every_ member of the command council who openly say that they would rather follow an experienced military leader than some unknown youth?” Kalustar picked up his pastry again. “If so, you will be busy. The new Supreme Leader needs a show of military strength to prove himself and solidify support or he will find himself suddenly replaced.”  
“Oh?” Opan smiled. “What can you tell me about that?”  
“You want names?” Kalustar bit into his pastry, chewed and swallowed, chasing the sweet pastry down with a gulp of bitter caf. He nodded at Opan. “I’ll give you one. In such a power vacuum I’m surprised that upstart bastard of old Brendol’s,  Armitage Hux, hasn’t attempted to take the title for himself yet. You should go investigate him instead of.. of...”

Opan suppressed a laugh of delight as Kalustar coughed, rubbed his throat and tried to sip caf between spluttering breaths. “Thank you for your time, Grand Marshal. I can assure you that your information will be of interest to my superior officer. Please consider this visit a friendly reminder that the First Order has a new Supreme Leader who will not tolerate disloyalty. Don’t get up,” Opan said, although Kalustar showed no sign of rising. “I can see myself out.”

Opan’s march back to the hangar was as unremarkable as he hoped. Phasma waited for him in the freighter, white armour plates still in place over her chrome limbs. Opan nodded as he slipped into the co-pilot seat.  
“It’s done.”  
Phasma nodded back. “Auto launch procedure engaged,” she said, and the freighter engines fired to push them up and out of the hangar. Once clear of the hangar doors, she piloted them at regulation speed to the regulation distance away from _The Conquest_ before plotting their first hyperspace jump.

_Unregistered freighter! Respond immediately. This is Commandant Starporter of the ISB. I demand that you return to hangar twelve imme—_

Opan silenced the comms and Phasma took them into a sequence of hyperspace jumps that would leave anyone potentially attempting to track them reeling. When the ship stopped, several hours later, it hung high above a planet. Opan yawned and pointed at it.  
“Where are we?”  
“Our next mission. Grand Marshal Hux transmitted orders while you were asleep. We are to investigate reports of rebel activity and suppress it quietly.”  
“Yes, but _where are we?”_ Opan repeated.  
“I thought you’d recognise it,” said Phasma with a smile. “We’re going to Canto Bight.”


	3. Gamblers

Grand Marshal Hux scowled at the Supreme Leader’s life-sized holo-image.  
“I can’t believe you’ve been part of the First Order for so many years yet you have such a fundamental lack of understanding of how to encourage loyalty.” He picked up the datapad from where the Supreme Leader had thrown it with the force and presented it to him again. “When one is promoted, it is customary to do what one can for the people who demonstrated loyalty. Every supporter shuffles up a bit in the jostle for power and those who did not show sufficient support are, relatively speaking, held back.” Kylo Ren raised bored eyes to meet Hux’s chagrin. “All I want you to do is personally approve this list of promotions.”  
“Approve it yourself,” replied Kylo Ren. “I have no interest in how you keep your suck-ups sucking up.”  
Hux tapped the datapad. “I already promoted Opan and Phasma plus a few others who deserved _my_ appreciation. These are _your_ suck-ups. I have sent the document to you.”  
Ren sighed, rolled his eyes and thumbed the authorisation space on the electronic form that lit up his own datapad.  
“Is one of them you? Grand Marshal not enough?” asked Ren, sneering. “What was the point in promoting Opan and Phasma? They’re both officially dead. It’s not like you can give them a pay rise.”  
“Well then, it was a very cost-effective measure in that case,” answered Hux. “Phasma has ambition and Opan likes his work to be recognised. Privately, of course. One cannot very well publicly praise one’s best assassin.” He smiled. “I think I know your type. Punish mistakes and expect perfection for no reward. You’re all stick and no carrot, aren’t you?”  
Kylo Ren barked a laugh at that. “Perhaps,” he said, “you’d like to come over to _The Supremacy_ and we’ll see whether you deserve the stick or the carrot. What do you say, are you my mistake?”  
“Later,” said Hux with a smile. “I apologise for disturbing your meditation. We’ll be in range of the rendezvous position in twenty minutes and I have a High Command meeting to organise. You will be ready, won’t you?”

Kylo Ren’s face lost its momentary levity. “You have set up the holofeed at your end?”  
“Yes!” Hux snapped, suddenly irritated by Ren’s doubt. “Do you need me to come over myself to supervise your end?” Hux blushed as the Supreme Leader leered at the possible innuendo. “Stop it.”  
“Of course it is done,” said Kylo, serious again. “I still think a more personal visit would be better.”  
“No,” Hux sighed. “Ren, we’ve been over this. I thought you agreed?” Hux raised an eyebrow at Ren. “Didn’t you say you would take my advice on this matter? I have seen how the High Command members cowered at the sight of Snoke’s image. You will be more terrifying as a holo, especially if your image can choke someone.”  
Hux felt his throat tighten and his breath whistle and hiss. He resisted the urge to panic and claw at his own throat. He would not give Ren the satisfaction. He sucked in as much air as he was able, pushing down the feeling of dread and hoping that his spinning head wouldn’t cause him to pass out before he could speak.  
“N... not... m... m... me!”  
Ren let go and Hux breathed deep and slow to ward off fear. He glared at Ren.  
“Choke _someone else,_ Ren, not your most loyal supporter.”

Kylo Ren’s image grinned, wavered and vanished. Despite the parallel course of the Supreme Leader’s flagship, the meeting was to be held in Hux’s strategy-room on _The Finalizer._ Hux chose the location for several reasons: it was his home territory and inconvenienced the other High Command members; Supreme Leader Kylo Ren could appear to be an imposing twenty feet tall if he wished rather than a moody-looking, ordinary young man; it strengthened his standing by demonstrating that he was in favour with the Supreme Leader; Chief Petty Officer Paze could easily monitor all transmissions to and from the nest of vipers he was about to receive on board, and _The Supremacy_ was more badly damaged from the passage of a rebel ship at near light-speed through one of its massive wings than the Supreme Leader wanted to be widely known. Hux smiled to himself. Perhaps he might suggest that he be granted a private audience with the Supreme Leader once the meeting was over, if it went well.

Paze kept Hux updated with arrivals. The First Order’s High Command officers shuttled one at a time from their ships and were escorted to their seats around Hux’s elongated conference table. One end remained empty—space for the Supreme Leader’s image to impress them all. Hux arrived once all the other Grand Marshals and Generals and Grand Admirals and Admirals were seated.  
“Thank you all for being prompt,” Hux said, rapping the surface sharply to demand that silence replace the rumble of conversation around the table. “Let’s get the minutiae out of the way before the Supreme Leader arrives, shall we?” Admiral Sheniac, sitting two thirds of the way down the table, grumbled. Hux shook his head and smiled. “Ah, Admiral, so glad you could make it all the way from... where was it you were while the rest of us obliterated the rebel fleet? Oh yes, in orbit around Arkanis,” Hux said as he tapped his datapad, “giving a motivational speech. Is your family well? You did squeeze in a visit, did you not?” A low titter circled the table and Hux gloated internally as he took his seat.  
Sheniac looked up. “I said, you are a bigger fool than your father. You lost a dreadnought to a pack of stray dogs.”  
“And they have been put down, Admiral. Anything else you want to get off your chest before we get down to business?”

Hux kept ice in his voice to hide the seething fire inside. A coded message from Lank Paze alerted him that Sheniac had just sent a message to four of the other High Command members urging them to support his personal attack on Hux. Hux replied to Paze: _prepare their shuttles for departure._ He gave a cool smile, making eye contact with each recipient of Sheniac’s plea before he spoke. “Well then, to business. Item one: funding bids for repairs to _The Supremacy_ and other star destroyers, and associated suppliers for parts and materials. I take it you have all brought damage reports and technical requisition lists for approval?”  
“That is hardly the most important consideration!” One of Sheniac’s supporters pointed at the empty space at the head of the table. “We should be hearing from the new _Supreme Leader_ about why we should accept a lad with no large-scale battle experience as leader instead of a seasoned veteran of the Empire as well as the First Order!”  
Sheniac and his supporters stood up to talk over one another in a competition to see who could be the loudest, most vehement opponent of Supreme Leader Kylo _who even is he_ Ren and his _pet general_ Armitage _give us bloody Brendol back_ Hux.

It could not have gone better. Hux sat back to watch as Supreme Leader Kylo Ren’s holoimage flickered into view, larger than life and distorted just enough in Hux’s opinion to enhance his raw beauty. The Supreme Leader held out his arms, mainly for show, and the four dissenters fell silent although their mouths still gaped and their eyes stared, bulging from wide open lids set in reddening faces. Only Admiral Sheniac failed to notice. Sheniac’s words, accompanied by a finger pointing at Hux, sailed across the table, “...and only a bastard like yourself would—“  
Ren released the four from their chokeholds and they fell into their chairs, two of them slipping onto the floor. Sheniac tried desperately to ease his breathing, pulling at his collar and gasping like one of the line-caught fish Hux used to see flapping on the sea defences near the fish market back on Arkanis. Ren lifted Sheniac up and dropped him, dead, onto the table.  
“Does anyone else,” said Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, leaning forwards so that his scarred face was level with their heads, “wish to challenge my leadership?” Ren was offered stunned silence as a reply. He sat back “Huh. Grand Marshal, continue.”

“Before we move on,” said Hux with a hint of a smile, “I think it best if Admiral Bluestar, General Menneby, Grand Admiral Do’sala and General Sandshifter were permitted to retire to their own star destroyers for the moment. Please leave your requisition lists for consideration.”  
The four dissenters glanced fearfully at the holoimage of Kylo Ren and left the room in silence. Hux pushed Sheniac’s shoulder up to free his datapad and checked it. Paze had signalled that all four shuttles were primed.  
“Supreme Leader, given the scale of our repair operation, I suggest that we send a representative of High Command with financial expertise to renegotiate with some of our... ah... less public sponsors and suppliers.” Hux looked around the remaining High Council, hoping one or two might volunteer. One hand wavered tentatively and Hux sighed in quiet gratitude. “Thank you Grand Admiral—“  
“No.” Ren’s voice shot across the room and echoed.  
“Supreme Leader?”  
“You will go.” Ren pointed at Hux.  
“Supreme Leader, I—“  
Kylo Ren’s head swam right in front of Hux’s face. “Is my trust in you misplaced, _Grand Marshal?_ That is a mistake that can be... corrected.”  
Hux swallowed, stomach rebelling and hands clutching tight to the armrests of his chair.  
“Um. Yes, Supreme Leader.”  
Ren nodded and resumed his position at the head of the table. Hux, as planned, kept the High Command meeting going until after Paze had messaged him to say with deep regret that a freak hangar accident had destroyed four shuttles, killing all occupants.

Once the rest of the High Command members had filed out, assuring the Supreme Leader of their unwavering loyalty, Hux got up and smiled. He pulled Sheniac’s body off the table by the boots and it fell to the floor, the skull making a sickening crack against the polished durasteel. Ren’s image sprawled back on its holographic throne.  
“I think that went well,” said Hux, “although I see no need to send me to grease palms in Canto Bight.”  
“Wait and see,” replied Ren, “which of those toadies comes to you first with concerns about my fitness to lead. They’ve seen me remove opposition and threaten you openly. I would bet that someone will try to use that to influence you against me in the next few days. They’ll say I’m dangerous.”  
“Well they’d be right.”  
Ren looked at Hux. “Unstable.”  
“Mmhmm, that too.” Hux kept his eyes on his datapad.  
“Ignorant of the inner workings of the First Order.”  
“Yes, well so was Snoke.” Hux looked up at last. “That’s why he kept a _rabid cur_ like me around. Now, I have a list of promotions of four of my own loyal officers to command the four star destroyers that find themselves suddenly bereft of their top brass. I need you to— I mean _I would be most grateful if you would consent_ to approve it.”  
“You’d better bring it to me in person,” replied the Supreme Leader. “I owe you a carrot.”

 

Tritt Opan lay on his bunk, opposite Phasma who sprawled on hers, and read his secure message with disbelief. “He’s promoted me with immediate effect,” he said, nudging Phasma’s foot before he realised there was no point as she would likely not feel anything. Phasma looked at him, frowning.  
“Congratulations. Posthumous I see,” she said, handing Opan her datapad, which displayed a list of _Officers Killed or Missing In Action._ Major Opan found his own name a few lines above Phasma’s and sighed.  
“Shame. If we have to spend more time on Canto Bight, a pay rise would come in handy. I see he promoted you too.”  
“Makes no practical difference on this mission,” said Phasma with a shrug. “I am still in command. He sent credits and further orders.”  
“About the rebel activity?”  
Phasma shook her head. “No, nothing about that.”  
“Just as well. You should have followed my recommendation to kill them all.” Opan frowned. “You did report that we found the rebels, didn’t you?”  
Phasma sat up straight and rounded on Opan. “Those were not rebels! They were children playing pretend. I swear the oldest was seven years old and they all stank of stable filth.”  
“You should have eliminated them,” repeated Opan. “And their families. Potential future threat to the First Order.”  
“No,” Phasma’s voice was sharp. “I will not slaughter children for playing a game. If they were young enough I would take them all for training—see that they are fed and taught a useful skill. Regular meals and a warm bunk would give them loyalty to the First Order and chase all that nonsense make believe from their heads. Perhaps I will take the youngest ones when we leave. With proper nutrition they might make strong stormtroopers.”  
“Huh.” Opan was not impressed. “Hux will want to see to it that this _game_ is carefully monitored. He’ll probably post a couple of spies to watch them and watch the dealings on the casino floor. Unless you want that to be _us_ we’d better find a scapegoat. Someone who has history with the rebels. There has to be someone in this city of sleaze who deals with both sides.”

Phasma shuddered at the thought of spending more time on Canto Bight than was necessary to get their job done. She nodded at Opan. “I will find someone who fits our needs.”  
“Good,” replied Opan. “What were the other orders?”  
“We are to make private deals for delivery of various parts and materials, then disappear once the orders are confirmed without paying more than this,” Phasma pointed to a number, “up front. Hux has sent a list of requirements and files on the dealers we are to approach. You will be the buyer. I will play the part of your... assistant.”  
Opan’s face lit up. “If I have to look as if I can afford a private military fleet, I will need new clothes. And so, my lovely assistant, will you.” Phasma’s jaw dropped. Opan laughed. “Oh come on, Phasma! Admit that I fit in here more comfortably than you do. Swallow your pride and do as I say.”  
Phasma recognised that it was a sensible risk to allow Opan to take control of this mission, but she didn’t have to like it.

Two hours later, Phasma had memorised the parts list, authorised spending limits and dealer headshots. Opan had been shopping. He appeared in the living area of the freighter immaculately groomed in a smart, brocade evening tunic in pale gold shimmer, matching pantaloons and a contrasting mid-length cape and slippers, and with a fashionably smooth hairstyle. Phasma stared, then laughed until tears ran down her undamaged cheek. Opan sniggered and held up his other purchases. Phasma pointed at the deep blue gown. She shook her head.  
“No.”  
Opan nodded. “Yes.”  
“It’s impractical. Dangerous. I won’t be able to run and there’s nowhere for my blaster.”  
Opan swished the skirt to show how its pleats parted to reveal thigh-high splits in the soft fabric.  
“I got you high boots and long gloves in silver to give you somewhere to hide a blaster pistol and disguise your mechanical parts, although I doubt anyone up there in the games rooms would care much if you’re half ‘droid as long as you’re spending. Oh, and this.” Opan held out a box. Phasma looked inside: there was a soft, feathered hat, almost a full helmet shape, with a mask attached. Opan lifted the hat up. “I thought you might be able to fit your helmet holorecorder inside.”

It took Phasma ten minutes to change and almost an hour to transfer a helmet holorecorder to the hat, a task that a month earlier would have been completed in minutes. She cannibalised a stormtrooper helmet rather than risk damaging her own, more specialised optics, and took frequent breaks to curse aloud and recalibrate her fine motor control of her prosthetic fingers with exercises she’d looked up in the medical engineering database. Opan, thankfully, knew when to keep out of her way. Eventually, Phasma walked into the bunkroom in a midnight-blue evening gown, silver boots and gloves, and a headcovering that showed her undamaged eye and a few wisps of blonde hair that she had been unable to tuck under the soft fabric with still-clumsy mechanical fingers. Opan nodded after a few seconds of silent appraisal. He gestured her closer. Phasma took one more step then grabbed Opan’s wrist as his hand reached for her face.  
“Let me fix your hair,” he said. “If it makes you feel better you can shove a blaster in my gut while I do it.”

Phasma settled for resting one hand across Opan’s throat while he worked warm, deft fingers under her hat, pulling out more strands, smoothing and curling them together by her cheekbone and jawline. She tried not to flinch. He smiled after a minute, stepped back and held out his arm.  
“There. Get into character. You look like you want to kill something. Please let it not be me. Shall we go soften up some arms dealers, _darling?”_

Phasma fretted inwardly. Opan walked with slow confidence when she wanted to march. He looked all around as if at random while she searched for memorised faces. He drawled lazy greetings at strangers as if he knew them while she tried to think of what to say if anyone tried to speak to her. She need not have worried: Opan effectively directed all attention onto himself by playing the arrogant braggart as if the role came naturally to him. Soon she spotted a face she knew from a file and she murmured in Opan’s ear, _”brown haired woman with green dress, bearing zero-four-zero, ferroceramic and ultrachrome raw materials. Zabrak bearing three-ten, long range plasma and laser cannon, scopes and sensors.”_

Opan nodded, his smile never moving from his lips. He gave a false name to a server droid. Ten minutes later, as Phasma was wondering why Opan was doing nothing other than wasting credits at a gaming table, the brown haired woman in the green dress approached, carrying a tall glass of something that fizzed. She turned golden contact lenses and a professional smile on Opan.  
“Well if it isn’t my dear friend Paze. Thank you for the drink. Leave your game. We have so much to catch up on.”  
The woman walked away. Phasma frowned at Opan. “Do you know her?” she asked, soft voice almost drowned out by the clattering and clanking of the slot machines. Opan smiled.  
“Not at all. But if she has something to sell and we appear to have credits, we will be firm friends for the next hour.”

Opan and the dealer talked quantities, qualities, timescales and, finally, prices, in a strange semi-coded speech that Phasma barely followed at first. Once Opan had pressed his thumb to her mini datapad, kissed her on both cheeks and watched her leave, he looked at Phasma. “Who’s next?”  
“I want to negotiate with the Zabrak,” said Phasma.  
“No,” replied Opan immediately with a single headshake. “I have experience and you do not. Watch and listen.”  
“I’m not standing around like a decoration,” said Phasma as she walked away. “Return to the freighter when you’re done.”

Phasma returned to the main gaming room as if she owned it, then stopped. Dead ahead at the bar, dressed in a creased grey First Order uniform with the wrong rank insignia and no command cap to cover his greasy hair, slouched the perfect rebellion-collaborator scapegoat. Phasma took two tumblers from a passing service droid and melted into the melee, grateful for the first time that in Canto Bight she was unremarkable. The drinks were for show, she reasoned that nobody would approach someone who was clearly looking for someone _else_ and it gave her an excuse to watch the room. When her target moved, Phasma followed. She observed from a discreet distance as he picked pockets and scammed the unwary of their winnings, then approached and set down one tumbler in front of him. He looked up. And up. Phasma looked down, hiding her sneer at his dishevelled appearance.

“T-to what d-do I owe the honour?”  
“To the First Order,” replied Phasma, clinking her glass against his.  
“The Fi-fi-first Ord-d-der,” he repeated, lifting his glass, sniffing it and downing the spirit in one slurp, followed by a slight cough.  
“I heard you recently got two traitors right into the heart of _The Supremacy._ I have a use for you.”  
“Not interested.” The man got up and turned away. Phasma caught up and took his arm. She steered him towards one of the turbolifts that led up from the games floors. He struggled but her hand clamped more tightly above his elbow.  
“You don’t have to be interested,” said Phasma. “You only have to comply.”  
“I could scream. You want me to scream?”  
He seemed unconcerned as they stood aside for the turbolift to empty. Phasma guided him into the vacant turbolift, closed the doors and punched the control for the roof access.

On the rooftop, high above the fashionable balcony bar that overlooked the racetrack, Phasma held DJ’s wrists firmly in one hand and held the other at his throat. He squirmed in a vain attempt to unbalance her, but her centre of mass was not where he expected. He struggled to release his hands and kicked her shin, then howled at the pain in his foot. Phasma kicked back and smirked at the satisfying _crack_ of his too-weak tibia. DJ yelled as he fell to his knees, his eyes closed and he sagged for a few seconds.  
“You helped the rebels get aboard _The Supremacy._ That is treason against the First Order,” she accused. “You are a rebel sympathiser.”  
“No! I s-sold ‘em out!”  
“You confirm that you met with members of the rebel alliance here on Canto Bight and used your skills as a slicer to assist them in gaining access to a major power coupling on _The Supremacy?”_  
“Yes bu-but—“  
“You’re nothing but scum.”  
She had recorded enough. Phasma tightened her hand around DJ’s neck and lifted him as if he were made of rags. His eyes bulged and he thrashed, slapping at her ineffectually with flailing arms, kicking out weakly until he went limp. She walked to the side of the roof dragging the slicer’s body behind her, looked down into the narrow alleyway below and threw him over without another glance to check whether or not he landed in one of the dumpsters. Phasma walked back to summon a turbolift then slipped out of the casino and made her way slowly back to the freighter to get out of her uncomfortable disguise and put together the slicer’s confession holo for Hux.

It was several more hours before Opan made it back. His hair was no longer smooth and his clothing was creased. Opan’s first words to Phasma were, _”Up! Now! Get out of here!”_  
Phasma leapt for the pilot’s seat and indicated to the hangar crew that she was ready to leave. Clearance was quick and soon Phasma soared the freighter up out of the atmosphere and into a high orbit. She engaged autopilot and went to check on Opan.  
“I demand to know what happened.”  
“I saw him. He’s here. I hid until he left then I ran. I don’t... I don’t think he saw me.”  
“Who?” Phasma frowned. Who could have put such fear in Tritt Opan? Except—  
Phasma’s voice dripped disbelief as she said the name and watched Opan’s face crumple.  
“Kylo Ren?”


	4. Negotiations

Phasma laughed in derision. “The Supreme Leader, Kylo Ren, in a casino in Canto Bight? Have you lost your mind, Opan?” She relented at Opan’s obvious distress. “Never mind what you think you saw. How were your negotiations? I have to report to the Grand Marshal soon.”

Opan set his jaw tight. He wanted to scream at Phasma. He was sure that he has not been mistaken—he’d felt the influence of the Supreme Leader before looking up and locking eyes with the monster for a fraction of a second. Kylo Ren had looked away, uncaring, and Opan had run. He looked at Phasma’s cool gaze. They were safe in a high orbit in an unmarked freighter with First Order clearance codes. He had no reason to give in to the feeling that started in the pit of his stomach and ran the length of his spine into his hindbrain that made him want to jump as far as possible from their current location.

“I secured contracts for about half of the raw materials on the list, plus updated electronic and cybernetic targeting systems for laster cannon, and as many TIE-silencers as I could get hold of without arousing suspicion. The Zabrak offered me x-wings at a discount. Said the bottom just dropped out of the market.”

Talking about his small successes settled Opan’s nerves. Phasma questioned him further on his transactions with the dealers and he provided details that earned him a single word of praise. His reaction to Phasma’s brief _”Well done”_ made him ashamed that he felt so in need of her approval, as if he was a raw cadet and she his drill sergeant. He thought of Hux with a pang of embarrassed regret that he had not been stronger.

 

While Opan secured parts and materials and Phasma assessed the rebel threat on Cantonica, Hux adjusted to the new chain of command.  
“Supreme Leader.” He paused at the end of the walkway into Kylo Ren’s throne room and sank to one knee, bowing his head for the briefest second before walking closer and holding out his datapad, a full arm-reach away. “Here are the promotions for the four new star destroyer generals I told— _suggested_. Will you please reconsider your decision to send me to Cantonica. Admiral Garrus is experienced and—“  
“No.” Kylo Ren shook his head as he stretched across to press his thumbprint over the reader on Hux’s datapad. “You will go to deal with the mundane concerns of rebuilding the fleet. I will be looking for any sign that the girl has been there.”  
“But Supreme Leader!” Hux protested. “I have already posted my agents. Surely if _the girl_ had been there, they would have informed me at once!”  
Kylo Ren looked at Hux as if he was a particularly stupid cadet. “Do they,” Ren said slowly, “know what they are looking for? Have they _seen_ her? Do they know what being close to another force-user...” Ren pointed to his head, “...feels like? Besides, I have been inside Opan’s mind and there is less going on in there than you seem to expect.”  
“But Phasma is—“  
“Phasma is a liability.” Ren sat forward and glared at Hux. “She’s a blunt weapon and her loyalty to you is a veneer—as yours is to me—but with one dangerous difference.” Ren’s teeth showed between parted lips. “You need me as Supreme Leader so that you can grasp at power in my wake. I need you to command my army so that the _other_ power-hungry fools will do as I command. So our loyalty is symbiotic.” He sat back again and pointed at Hux’s chest. “You need Phasma for her strength. What does she need you for, now you’ve cut her loose?”

Hux was not about to admit that he had already had such fears about Phasma. Having her declared dead was only the first step towards ensuring her continued loyalty. He knew that next she must believe that he could, and would, see that official declaration come true if she crossed him. He sighed, slotted his datapad into its carry case and tapped his hand on his thigh in a show of impatience.  
“I will deal with Phasma. For the moment she has proved most useful. I have sent her with Opan to Canto Bight to place orders for materials we need to reconstruct the damaged wing of _The Supremacy_ and bring your capital city back to the glorious sta—“  
“Get on with it, Hux!” snapped Kylo Ren. “I am not Snoke, I do not appreciate flattery.”  
“Fine.” Hux folded his arms across his chest and pouted a little. Kylo Ren gloated at having irritated him. “Well then. I ordered Phasma and Opan to pose as buyers for some of the most expensive raw materials and parts we need. They will make orders, pay as little up front as possible, wait for notification that delivery is imminent and the balance is due, then vanish. I intended to send Garrus to offer to take the _surplus goods_ off the dealers’ hands for a significant discount. But you insist on sending me instead when I should be overseeing the hunt for the last stragglers of the rebel forces who escaped from Crait!”

The Supreme Leader watched Hux’s face as his annoyance built up and his pout deepened. Hux met Kylo Ren’s gaze. Ren was smiling.  
“What? What can you possibly find so amusing about this ridiculous situation, Ren?”  
“Come here.”  
“I am here!” Ren smiled wider at the petulance in Hux’s tone.  
“No, come closer.”  
Ren gestured and Hux took the last step toward him. Ren stood up and leaned close to Hux’s ear. ”I said I owed you a reward,” said Ren, his low voice and the sensation of warm breath on his ear sending a shiver down Hux’s back. He touched Hux’s temple with a fingertip. ”What did you have in mind? Can I look?”  
“Absolutely not,” replied Hux quietly. “And not in your fucking throne room with your attendants standing around.”  
“I can send them away if you want.” Ren’s hand found Hux’s waist and pulled him in. “They’re just for show. I don’t need anyone.”  
“Well...” Hux felt heat flame his cheeks. “Make it sound like we’re having a private strategy discussion or something.”

The Supreme Leader gave a nod toward the door and his attendants filed out. As soon as the door closed, Ren moved his hand up Hux’s back and into his hair, cupping the back of Hux’s head. Ren smiled. “I know what you want,” he said. “It’s all over your face. I don’t have to look any deeper.”  
“Obviously,” retorted Hux, “I want you to cancel your order sending me to Cantonica.”  
Ren smiled, leaned forward to close the last few inches between their faces and kissed Hux gently. “No. You _are_ going to Canto Bight...” said Ren, then he kissed Hux again, radiating warmth until he could feel Hux sigh and relax into it. As Hux brought his arm up around Ren’s neck, Ren added, “...and I _am_ coming with you.”

“WHAT?” Hux shoved himself out of Ren’s arms. “That is... That is NOT HAPPENING!” He pointed a finger at Ren and then at the floor. “You need to be HERE. You are the new Supreme Leader and you need to establish yourself on _The Supremacy._ You can’t go chasing after some rebel scavenger just because she’s handy with a lightsaber!”  
“We’ll take _The Finalizer_ up to just beyond their sensor range and use a shuttle to get to the surface.” Ren held his hand out. “Come here.” He gestured and Hux came within reach again. Ren took his hand. “I know you want it.”  
“What?” Hux said, brusque tone and looking away.  
“To sit on my throne.”  
Hux shook his head and laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a meaningless symbol.”  
“But you do want it,” replied Ren. He led Hux right up to the huge dark throne, turned and sat, without releasing Hux’s hand. “Sit here with me. Admire the view.”  
Hux looked around as if to ensure there were no witnesses then perched awkwardly at the edge of the inadequate space Ren had left for him. Ren laughed.  
“Not like that.” Ren slipped one arm around Hux’s back and reached under his knees with the other, then swung him up and onto his lap. “I meant like this.”  
“Uh! Supreme Leader... Ren...”  
Ren laughed and kissed Hux again, chasing his lips when Hux moved his head away in protest, persisting with soft pressure and a warm hand on Hux’s cheek until Hux gave in, looped both arms around Ren’s neck and kissed him back, a hand stroking through Ren’s long hair. Ren let Hux have him for a minute then shook off the hand in his hair and smiled.  
“You’re right, Armitage. Not here.”  
“Oh fuck you!” said Hux, without any of the venom he’d intended to project. “Where then. Your chambers? Mine?”  
“No,” replied Ren, letting Hux find his feet on the floor again and pushing him up and off. “In Canto Bight. Return to _The Finalizer_ and make preparations.” 

Hux’s private comlink buzzed almost as soon as he got back to his duty quarters near the bridge. Phasma’s face flickered and steadied in miniature.  
_”Grand Marshal, I report that I have uncovered and killed a rebel spy in Canto Bight. I will append his full confession at the end of this report. I have not uncovered any permanent rebel presence here but I will continue to investigate. Opan has made orders for the materials detailed in the second attachment to this report, and is in the process of securing more. As you will see, the first shipment of materials is due in one standard day.”_  
Phasma smiled and Hux frowned at the sight.  
_”I thought it would amuse you to know that those who also deal with the rebels are falling on hard times. Appendix three details the names of the dealers who attempted to sell goods normally associated with the rebellion. I stand by for further orders.”_

Hux nodded in satisfaction. He watched the collaborator scum confess, on his knees, viewed from Phasma’s helmet holofeed.  
_“...treason against the First Order.”_ Phasma’s voice was calm. The traitor looked to be one step away from grovelling and Hux half-hoped he’d put on a show. _“You are a rebel sympathiser. You confirm that you met with members of the rebel alliance here on Canto Bight and used your skills as a slicer to assist them?”_  
_“Yes bu-but—“_  
_“You’re nothing but scum.”_

The holofeed cut out. Hux sighed at the second attachment and skipped on to the last. He forwarded it to Paze with an instruction to find out where the dealers who supplied the resistance were based. He would blast them into ashes from orbit himself if he could, and sat back with a smug smile at the thought of destroying the new potential rebel fleet before they had even collected it as an entertaining diversion on their way to Cantonica. But this new thought pulled the smile from Hux’s lips. The Supreme Leader had been _most_ persuasive, and he’d allowed himself to be influenced. He’d agreed to go to Canto Bight himself with Lank Paze providing communications support and... Hux sighed and rubbed his face. And _Supreme Leader Kylo Ren_ on the loose chasing his own personal agenda.

One day. He had to be in Canto Fucking Bight in one day. Hux sighed and stood, left his small quarters near the bridge and stood on the walkway looking out at the Supremacy. He glanced down into the datapit on his right.  
“Has the Supreme Leader’s shuttle docked yet?”  
“No sir.”  
Hux pressed his lips together tightly. “Well then. Perhaps he has decided to remain in—“  
“Sir! Incoming transmission from—“  
“Grand Marshal Hux!” Hux yelped as he turned to see Kylo Ren’s face hovering, huge, on the bridge.  
“Supreme Leader! We are—”  
Ren’s voice boomed. “I require your presence in my chambers in one hour for a private strategy discussion.”  
Hux felt heat rise up his neck to colour his face. He clenched his fists tightly, choked down his embarrassment and nodded curtly. The holoimage vanished and Hux was left with the afterimage of a lingering, tight-lipped smile. Chief Petty Officer Paze kept his eyes on his console and sucked his lower lip. Nobody else reacted with anything other than relief that the Supreme Leader ignored them. Hux took a deep breath in and out through flared nostrils.  
“I had better prepare to meet with the Supreme Leader. Captain Peavey, you have the bridge.”

Precisely fifty-nine minutes later, Hux tapped his code into the security panel outside the Supreme Leader’s suite and let himself in with a little puff of pride that he’d kept this set of rooms ready, although Snoke never saw fit to visit in person. He wondered how Ren would greet him: with affection? Doubtful. With abruptness—straight through to the opulent bedchamber? Probably. Hux smiled at Ren’s absence from the main reception room with the soft, blue sofas he’d picked out himself and the glossy conference table, polished ebon inlaid with palest blue diya-wood protected from scratches by the thinnest layer of almost-indestructible crystasteel. When Hux got halfway to the door that led to the Supreme Leader’s private areas, Ren loomed in the doorway.

“Hux. While you are in Canto Bight haggling for materials, I will be seeking out signs that a force user has been in the vicinity. I will not be accompanying you to the casinos.” Hux sighed in relief. The last thing he wanted was Kylo Ren losing his patience during delicate financial negotiations. “I will be there not as the Supreme Leader, but as one force user seeking another. I trust you have not mentioned my presence?”  
Hux was momentarily thrown, but recovered quickly. “Indeed not. I have only told those who need to know that I will be there and have certainly not mentioned you, since you have not thought to enlighten me as to what your plans are!”  
“Good,” said Ren, walking to the table and sitting down. “How long will it take you to complete your business in Canto Bight?”  
“Ren, are we actually having a _strategy meeting?”_ asked Hux, voice rising in pitch.  
“Of course!” Ren’s mouth twitched and he bit his lower lip. “I made that perfectly clear when I summoned you.”  
Hux’s cheeks took on a slight pink. He scowled and slid into the chair opposite Ren then took out his datapad. “I assume you want me to draw up a full schedule for the negotiations, Supreme Leader?”  
“Have your new lackey do that. I want you to tell me everything you know about this group of rebels on Cantonica.” Ren leaned forward and reached out a hand. “Leave out nothing or I will look for myself.”  
Hux sighed and tapped his datapad. “You may as well just see Phasma’s report.”  
Phasma’s image delivered her message to Kylo Ren while Hux watched his face. At the end, Ren thumped the table, hard. “I knew it! She’s lying. Hiding something,” he said, getting up to pace the floor like a caged ganjuko. “I had a momentary communication through the Force with Opan. His mind is wide open to me now, and there is more to this. Tell Phasma nothing. I will find out what she is not telling you.”

Hux stood to leave. “At once, Supreme Leader,” he said with an undertone of sarcasm. Ren was at his side immediately, a hand on his cheek and dark eyes seeming to pin him in place.  
“Armitage—“  
“Oh no you don’t!” Hux wrenched himself away out of reach. “You think you can make me agree to whatever you want with... with a—”  
Hux forgot what he was about to accuse Kylo Ren of doing, instead lost in the sensation of how warm and soft his lips were when they kissed. Ren smiled between kisses.  
“Make sure your assistant gets us a suite.” Kiss. “You’ll need to rest after negotiating.” Kiss. “And I made you a promise.” This time Ren offered a kiss that made Hux’s stomach drop and his groin tingle but Ren pulled back too soon and murmured, “didn’t I?”

Hux rested his forehead on Ren’s shoulder for a moment and Ren stroked his hair. Somehow, Hux noticed, they were standing right by the door. He righted himself and Ren opened it, giving him a little shove. The door closed behind him.  
“Oh, fuck you, Kylo Ren,” said Hux quietly, then marched to the bridge to give the orders that would take them to Cantonica.


	5. Questioning

Major Tritt Opan (deceased) stood before Grand Marshal Hux in his suite on _The Finalizer,_ orbiting well out of reach of Cantonica’s defensive sensor systems. He saluted and handed over a datapad. “Sir! This is the most up to date list of the financial transactions from Canto Bight. As you can see there—“  
“Yes, I _can_ see. Well done, Opan. I knew I could count on you.” Hux smiled when Opan glanced at his face. Hux took in Opan’s furrowed brow and generally downcast demeanour. He sighed. “Is there something wrong?”  
“No, sir. Nothing that matters.”  
“Tritt,” Hux spoke gently and stood up to walk around his desk and face Opan properly. “What are you not telling me? Is it about the Canto Bight mission?” Opan’s eyes flicked to Meet Hux’s steady gaze again. “Hmm. Don’t make me guess, Tritt.”  
“I saw...” Tritt took a few seconds to rub his face, clench and unclench his fists, then sighed. “I saw the Supreme Leader in a casino bar several hours ago. Phasma says I can’t have but I was so sure. I _felt_ him in my mind just before I looked up, and there he was.”  
_”Really?”_ Hux’s voice dripped concern. “Phasma is correct. The Supreme Leader has been here on _The Finalizer_ preparing for a mission of his own. Perhaps I should send you for—“  
“No! No sir, not reconditioning!” The space-bound pallor of Opan’s brow whitened even further and pink blotched his neck and cheeks. “I can perform my duty and I am loyal. To you. It was a momentary weakness, that’s all, whatever Phasma has told you, and it will not happen again.”  
Hux smiled again and laid a hand on Opan’s arm. “Well then, we need not mention it.”

Opan’s face relaxed and his eyes closed for a second. Hux patted his shoulder then unfastened Opan’s tunic from the collar to the hem. “You look exhausted. Perhaps that is what made you think you saw Kylo Ren. Come with me.” Hux let Opan’s tunic fall to the floor, took Opan’s hand and led him through his suite to his bedroom, stopping every few steps to help him out of another garment or two. “Use my sanisteam,” suggested Hux. “Rest here with me for a while. I have a couple of hours before I have to leave for Canto Bight.”  
“Sir, I... don’t...” Opan looked at his feet. “Don’t... if you.. don’t make me see him afterwards. I can’t—“  
“Tritt!” Hux took a step back and frowned. “As long as you remain loyal to me, there is no need for you to be anywhere near the Supreme Leader. I give you my word.” Opan looked up and Hux smiled reassurance. “He has no interest in you. He told me as much himself. Now, how can I help you to relax?” Opan’s lips twitched into a smile despite his fears. Hux leaned close to kiss him, sensing the tension in his neck and shoulders begin to ease. It wasn’t like kissing Kylo Ren, thought Hux. Opan’s lips were narrower and the man wasn’t as imposingly tall, nor did he try to take control. But he would do well enough as a substitute for now.

They lay together, warm in Hux’s bed, after more quiet, insincere promises and soft touches during a shared shower, and a few glorious minutes where Hux again mused that although Kylo Ren’s mouth was better, Opan’s was quite adequate. Opan dozed and Hux reflected that he’d have to _do something_ about Opan. He watched the man’s eyelids flutter and open, and found a smile. “I thought you were going to sleep longer,” said Hux gently. “You can, if you like.” Hux lay down again and slipped his arm across Opan’s chest, remembering how different it had felt that one time, in this bed, to stroke his hand across the smooth skin covering the solid muscles of Kylo Ren’s torso. They had done almost everything Hux wanted that night, and nothing since. His fingers slid over Opan’s nipple and back again twice. Opan laughed and trapped Hux’s hand.  
“I’ll have no chance of sleeping if you tease,” he said, turning his head to focus on Hux’s face beside his on the pillows. Hux kissed him and circled his nipple with his finger pads one more time, then moved back.  
“Tritt, may I mix duty with pleasure for a moment?”

Opan groaned and sat up. He asked in a low voice what the problem was. Hux sat up too and put his arms around Opan’s shoulders, pulling him back down to the pillows.  
“Nothing that casts blame on you. I am very pleased with your, um, recent performance.” Hux grinned and Opan giggled. “I know Phasma has not been completely truthful in all of her reports. She’s omitting things—I can tell. What do _you_ know about the Canto Bight rebel activity? Her report confirms that she found and executed a collaborator. There’s more, though, isn’t there?”  
Opan sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I knew she’d do something like this,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want to report to you separately and seem to be undermining her command if it came to nothing, but there was more rebel activity than she has told you.”  
“Oh?” Hux stroked Opan’s cheek. “Tell me everything, however trivial.”  
“There is a group of children, urchins who work the stables, all under twelve years old by the look of them. The smallest is about five, maybe older if he’s malnourished. They play a game when they think nobody’s watching where they pretend to have lightsabers, and I saw them play with a doll one of them made that has some kind of sword and robes.”  
Hux was barely aware that he had shot up at the word _lightsaber._ “Kriff!” he said. “The Supreme Leader is going to want to hear that. No!” Hux swivelled, straddled Opan’s hips and laid his hands on Opan’s chest to hold him down. “I won’t send you to him. I will tell him myself.”  
“Sir! Armitage,” Opan grasped at Hux’s hand as Hux rose from bed. Hux turned. Opan pointed at his head. “Please, don’t give him any reason to look.”

Freshening up and dressing quickly, Hux hoped he’d get credit for having found out Phasma’s secret before Ren thought to question her himself. He let himself into the Supreme Leader’s suite. Kylo Ren sat in silence, eyes closed, a calm smile on his face. Hux waited almost a full minute.  
“Um.”  
“Grand Marshal.” Ren opened his eyes and his smile evaporated. “Why are you disturbing my meditation?”  
“I thought you would want to hear about the rebel activity on Canto Bight,” said Hux with a trace of triumph in his voice.  
Ren was out of his seat immediately, forcing Hux back against the wall as if invisible hands squeezed and shoved at his ribcage. Hux sucked in shallow breaths and pushed out words.  
“Careful, Supreme... Leader. You’ll want... t’ hear my... news _before_ you...”  
Ren let go. Hux breathed deep and smiled brightly. “Well then. You were right—Phasma omitted to mention in her report that there is a group of _rebels_ on Cantonica. They are aged between about five and twelve standard years old and no immediate threat. But there is one thing that might interest you.” Hux paused and straightened his uniform. He met Kylo Ren’s deep stare with smug pride. “They play a game involving lightsabers. How many slave children sold off to pay their parents’ gambling debts would have heard of lightsabers?”

Kylo Ren shot out of his seat and paced the room, back and forth twice, then halted in front of Hux. “I have to go there. Now.”  
“Now?”  
“Yes!” Ren gesticulated and a few objects in the room rocked precariously in position. “Immediately. I will question these children myself and if the scavenger has been there, I will sense it. Inform Phasma that I will see her on the freighter in minutes. She can take me to them and you can take a shuttle to the casinos with...” Ren stopped talking, stood perfectly still for a few seconds, then laughed. “Oh, Hux. I see how you got your information from Opan. Did he...” Ren closed his eyes again for a moment. “Did he tell you during your pillow talk that he advised Phasma to have them all killed?” Ren laughed again and shook his head. “For the second time I find myself thankful that your man is incompetent.”  
“Opan has done well and fully deserved his reward,” snapped Hux. “I will see you in Canto Bight, when you are done chasing your scavenger.”  
“What?” Ren frowned at Hux then his face relaxed. ”Yes. Of course.”  
With no further comment, the Supreme Leader threw his cloak around his shoulders and left.

Hux returned to his suite. Opan’s clothing still littered his floor where Hux had removed it, garment by garment, and dropped it on the way to the bedroom, but Opan was nowhere in sight. Hux searched the suite again, gathering up Opan’s uniform, then called out. “Opan? Tritt, are you still here?”  
A muffled sound came from under the bed. Hux knelt down to look and found Opan curled up with his forehead on his knees and his arms around himself.  
“Oh, come out.” Hux lay down and reached his arm under the bed to touch Opan’s head. “You’re safe. Come out before you get cold. Your clothes are here. Clearly you are not fit for duty today. Get dressed and report to my medbay.”  
Hux sighed and stroked Opan’s head again. He would _definitely_ have to do something about Tritt Opan. Soon.

Phasma stood to attention on the freighter’s entry ramp to greet the Supreme Leader. He wasted no time in asking about the children and she gave curt, informative answers as the freighter launched from the hangar and left _The Finalizer_ for the short jump to Cantonica. Phasma piloted the craft to the surface and looked at Kylo Ren with a thoughtful expression. “What do you intend to do with the children?” she said, voice carefully neutral.  
Ren did not bother to look up. “Find out what they know and how they came by that knowledge,” he said. “After I have my information you may do as you please with them.”  
“I have the Supreme Leader’s permission to deal with these children in my own way?” asked Phasma.  
“That is what I said,” Ren confirmed. “Now, take me to them.”

Phasma nodded once. She fastened a cloak across her shoulders as defence against the night-time chill. She left her arms and legs bare, showing off her gleaming chrome bones and mechanical joints, blaster clipped to the struts of her thigh, body plates and helmet polished so they shone. She led and Ren followed close behind. To Phasma’s surprise, not only were they unchallenged by the local police, but nobody even looked their way and the guard at the entrance to the racetrack let them pass with barely a half-dozen words from Ren. The only sounds from the stable block were the shuffles and snorts of animals. Reflective eyes peered out over the top of one wooden door and Ren held his hand up. The creature, a fathier, nervously nodded its way forward until Ren could touch its scarred and scabbed hide. He opened the stable door with a gesture and the animal trotted out. Behind it trailed a child, a boy with dark eyes and matted hair the same colour as the fathier’s coarse, deep brown fur. In his hand he clasped a doll made from sacking, fathier hair and ribbon-wrapped twigs. Ren held up his hand and the boy held up the doll.

Ren hunkered down to child-level. “Come closer. Did you make this?”  
The boy approached but shook his head. He pointed at another stable and Phasma saw a pair of human eyes peer out under the stable doors. She beckoned and smiled but the child hid. Phasma removed her helmet and tried again. The eyes reappeared, glinting in what little grey light filtered down to the stables. Ren glanced sideways then made eye contact with the boy again.  
“Is that your friend?”  
Nod.  
“May I be your friend too?”  
Pause. Nod.  
“This is my friend,” Ren pointed at Phasma. “Show her your doll.”  
The boy trotted over and presented the figure to Phasma. Phasma accepted it and made a show of examining it. She smiled. “Whoever made this for you is very clever.” Ren raised his eyebrows at Phasma’s voice. The clipped accent was gone, replaced by something smoother, with elongated vowels more fitting for their surroundings. Phasma glanced over at the stable where the eyes still glinted out at her. She took off her cloak. “The person who made my arms and legs is very clever too. Would you like to see how they work?”  
The stable door creaked open and a slender girl darted out, closing the door behind her. She spoke sharply to the boy. He snivelled a little then caught the tether of the loose fathier and returned it to their shared home. She looked up at Phasma and held her hand out.  
“I made it. It’s mine.”  
Phasma gave the doll back.  
“What is he holding?” asked Ren, pointing at the doll. The girl frowned.  
“She’s a _girl!_ She’s got a laser sword thingy.”  
“Really!” Ren could not have sounded more enthusiastic. “Have you ever seen a real one?”  
The girl laughed. “No, silly!” Ren smiled and pretended to be embarrassed at her scorn. “Only _Jedi_ have those and they’re just from stories. Don’t you know _anything?”_  
“I guess not,” he said. “Who else here plays with your Jedi-girl doll? You can trust us.”

There was a moment of stillness while Ren stared at the girl. She frowned then smiled. “Only us.” Turning, whistling and clapping her hands in a fast rhythm, the girl summoned the boy who had brought the doll and two other grubby children. The doll-maker introduced everyone then looked expectantly at Ren. He smiled.  
“Well, my name is Ben and this is Phasma.”

A sudden clatter from the stable entrance made the children scurry away and the adults spin on their heels.  
“OI! YOU LAZY BRATS! YOU LOT BETTER—”  
The yell came from a squat cloddogran brandishing a whip. Before he finished his sentence, he coughed and fell to the ground with the whip beside him and the fingers of his upper two arms still twitching at his neck.  
Phasma sighed and murmured, _”We can’t stay here. We’ll have to take them,”_ then, at Ren’s nod, she called out. “Hey, young ones! Arashell? Oniho? Temiri? Little Arru? Come with us! Quick!”  
Eyes peered out. Arashell, the oldest and the toymaker, looked at their old master. “Is he dead?”  
“Yes,” said Phasma. “Come now!”  
Ren nodded. “When the police get here they will blame you. We can hide you.”

Arashell chewed her lip then nodded. She called to the other children to follow, and in a slow procession punctuated by comments and questions like _you’re shiny!_ and _what happened to your real arms and legs?_ and _we’ll get caught!_ and _why does mister Ben stare and wave his hand at people like that?_ they made it back to the freighter. The first thing Phasma did was get each child a field ration pack. They ate separately and in silence, and not one of them complained that it tasted bland. Phasma wondered if they had been left to eat the fathiers’ scraps. Ren and Phasma sat in the cockpit.  
“Did you find what you came for?” asked Phasma as she punched commands into the console in front of her. Ren sighed and shook his head.  
“I can feel something. There is a presence here, but it is very weak. It’s not the scavenger. I will interrogate them,” he waved a hand back through into the living area where the children still ate huddled in corners around their rations, “when they are more relaxed. Find out how they know about Jedi, then return to find the force-user.”

Phasma piloted the freighter up through the atmosphere then into a hyperspace jump that made the youngest children squeal with excitement. When they had eaten as much as they could, “Ben” entertained them with tricks using the force until Temiri shouted out in excitement, ”I can do that too! Look!”  
Ren gripped the edge of his seat when the child caused an extra helping of protein bar to slide the few inches across the table to his hand. He asked the boy to do it again, and this time the other children giggled as a piece of ration bar floated right into the boy’s mouth. Ren smiled and said, “Well you are a clever thing, aren’t you? Don’t do that trick for anyone except your friends here and me. Understand?”

On approach to _The Finalizer,_ Ren joined Phasma in the cockpit. “None of them has useful information about the scavenger girl. All I saw in their heads were fragments of tales told wrong by fools. What do you intend for them?” he asked.  
“I thought it was up to me, that you didn’t care,” she replied with a smile.  
“I don’t. I’m curious. Opan wanted you to kill them and you could have.”  
“All but the oldest can join the stormtrooper programme. I think they will do well enough—they are not so sickened by hard lives that they can’t recover with proper nutrition and training, or so old and set in their ways that they can’t respond to conditioning. The First Order needs strong soldiers.”  
“You are buying their loyalty to the First Order with regular meals and safe beds,” said Ren with a smile of approval. “And the toymaker?”  
Phasma sighed. “She’s too old. Perhaps she can learn to build or fix things more useful than dolls. Maybe Hux will allow her to enlist as a maintenance cadet.”  
“If it helps, tell him I said he is to arrange it.” Ren held Phasma’s disconcertingly steady, blue gaze. “The boy, Temiri, is mine. You saw what he can do. He’s a force-user, a weak one, but a force-user nonetheless. I will assess his power properly when I return to  <i>The Supremacy</i> and teach him to use his ability. Say nothing to Hux about this matter.”  
Phasma nodded her acceptance. As far as Hux was concerned, they’d found only recruits.

Meanwhile Hux paced his hotel suite and cursed Kylo Ren. Business had gone smoothly with everyone except the Zabrak—who had said she’d find another buyer until Paze’s blaster made her reconsider—and the First Order had secured materials for repairs to _The Supremacy_ at sub-market prices. But Kylo Ren was absent for Hux’s celebration and only Lank Paze was available to share in his success. Hux sighed in irritation at the deep bathtub, the ice bucket with its bottle of sparkling wine and the opulent bedding. He snapped a picture of each feature and sent them in a private message to the Supreme Leader.

_Even your chambers on The Supremacy are less luxurious than this. Am I to assume that, despite your promises, this suite is for my use alone?_


	6. Loose Ends

Hux stood in front of Ren, red-faced and shaking with rage. “YOU were supposed to be IN CANTO BIGHT WITH ME!”  
“Hux,” Ren held up a hand and Hux took an involuntary step back. “Something more important happened.”  
“WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE MORE IMPORTANT? THAT WAS HUMILIATING!”  
Ren sighed. He’d have to yell to cut through Hux’s temper. “IT IS NONE OF YOUR CONCERN, GRAND MARSHAL!” Hux flew backwards across the room and remained pinned to the wall, partway up. Ren sighed again, hoping that his assistants had got the force-user child out of earshot by now. He raised his voice and pointed at Hux’s face, but stopped short of shouting. “Need I remind you that I am the Supreme Leader? I will release you only if you promise to calm down. If you yell at me again, I will shut you up permanently!”

What little colour there was drained from Hux’s face and he nodded, tight-lipped. Ren stepped back and let go, and Hux dropped to a heap on the floor. “Well then,” he said quietly, picking himself up and adjusting his uniform. “If you have no further need of me I will see to it that your shuttle is prepared to return you to _The Supremacy_ before you end my life without a care. I thought we had an... an accord. A _personal_ one.”  
“We do, Hux,” said Ren. “Come here.”  
Hux shook his head. “No. I have—”  
“I found a force-user,” said Ren quickly. “In Canto Bight. I dealt with it.”  
“Oh.” Hux studied his gloves. “Good for you.”  
Ren strode up to Hux and loomed in his space. “Can you imagine for ONE SECOND how IMPORTANT that is? To me? _Personally?”_ He looked away again. “Of course not. It’s so far removed from your experience you can’t _possibly_ comprehend it. All that’s filling your mind right now is how disappointed you felt when I summoned you back from your hotel room in Canto Bight.”  
“You led me on, Supreme Leader. You made me think you wanted me. You played me to keep me compliant.” Hux paused with his hand over the door release, and looked back at Ren. “You must think I am a complete fool.”

Hux felt himself pulled away from the door and towards Ren. Ren took off his gloves and stroked Hux’s hair, leaned close and kissed him. Hux quickly flexed and extended his wrist, then brought his hidden blade, now in his hand, up to Ren’s throat. Ren laughed.  
“Oh, Armitage. Are we still playing that game? Go on.” He angled his head back but remained poised to push back, skimming Hux’s mind for intent and finding only the last ragged remnants of anger at his humiliation. “You can hurt me, if that is what you need to do.”  
But the blade clicked back into position in Hux’s sleeve. Hux sighed and rested his forehead on Ren’s shoulder. “I swear, Kylo, if you push me too far I’ll do it.”  
“Can I kiss you now without you trying to kill me?” Hux glared but his face softened and he nodded after a few seconds. Ren’s fingers combed into his hair and held his head steady, preventing Hux from seeking more than Ren was offering. Ren pulled back after a handful of seconds, let go and smiled. “What else can I do to reassure you that we still have a _personal accord?”_  
Hux smoothed back his hair. “Stay out of Opan’s head. The man is almost useless thanks to you.”  
“Make sure he stays out of your bed, then,” replied Ren. “It’s like a beacon lights up every time you touch him.”

Meanwhile Phasma watched Opan as the medidroid buzzed around to the other side of him, giving her a wide berth.  
“What’s wrong with you?” asked Phasma, frowning. “Hux ordered me to see that you do not leave this facility.”  
“I’m flattered that he thinks I need you to stop me from running rather than sending a pair of ordinary stormtroopers.” Opan winced as the medidroid ripped an electropad from the side of his head. “I am suffering from having my mind repeatedly invaded by Kylo Ren. It seems he can riffle through my thoughts whenever he chooses. That is why I saw him in the casino—he wanted information from me so he took it. He did it again after...” Opan trailed off, wondering if Phasma knew that he and the Grand Marshal were intimate. He moistened his lips and sighed. “Well. He did it again and Hux saw the aftermath. It leaves me unable to tell which horrors are real and which are not. Hux sent me for screening. I suppose reconditioning comes next. I begged him not to order that but I’d consider it.”  
Phasma raised her eyebrows. “You would consent to have your mind altered? You’d be like a stormtrooper, good for following orders and little more. I saw you after your episode on Cantonica and you recovered well enough.”  
“I know,” said Opan, “and thank you for not calling it my _weakness._ But every time he invades me, it leaves me more afraid of him and less sure that I can trust my own senses. With reconditioning, I would still be able to serve in some capacity and I would be of no further interest to Leader Ren. How... how did he treat you? You went to Canto Bight together. Did he...?”  
Phasma shook her head, more as a sign that she did not wish to speak of Kylo Ren than as any indication of how he had treated her. “There must be another way.” she said. “Did Hux press the issue? If you were truly loyal you would—“  
“Don’t you think I’ve tried to be stronger?” Opan cut Phasma’s words with a glare. “I got as far away as duty allowed and he still got to me.” Opan pointed to his forehead. “I could be all the way across the galaxy and he’d still get in here!”

There would be no reasoning with Opan in this mood. Phasma sighed and spent her time on exercises to improve her fine motor control of her prostheses. The medidroid interrupted with suggestions of new exercises she might try, but only once. Opan watched, impressed with Phasma’s power and perseverance.  
“It’s quite something,” he said after an hour or so. “You, I mean. You could drop a rancor with a lucky punch but you’d struggle to write your name.”  
“Are you implying I’m illiterate?” said Phasma, her piercing glare making Opan sweat a little more.  
“No! No, I meant what you can do. Physically. You have strength and agility but not...” Opan made fluttering motions with his fingertips. Phasma copied, frowning at her chrome phalanges.  
“I can if I concentrate. But as you can see,” Phasma held up her now resting hands, “I stop when I get sidetracked. I need someone to help me train.”  
Opan sat up. “Can I help? I need something else to think about.”  
Phasma shrugged and smiled. “That depends,” she said, “on how much you mind getting hurt.”

Opan turned out to be an acceptable training partner. Phasma escorted him from medbay to her preferred training room after telling the medidroid it could report them to the Grand Marshal all it liked but it better not get between them and the exit. The stormtroopers in the gym fell silent, and one by one they snapped to attention. Their section leader rushed to apologise for the intrusion, and her error in assuming Phasma’s _actual_ demise, and ordered the ‘troopers out. Phasma grimaced once they had cleared the gym.  
“I intend to ask Hux to reinstate me as head of the stormtrooper programme,” she said, taking Opan’s arm. “Tell me when this hurts.”  
“You want your old job back?” asked Opan. “Is traveling the galaxy as Hux’s latest assassin dull, or is it my company you’re tired of? AAH! Enough!” Opan rubbed his arm and shook it out. “What are you doing anyway?”  
“I can calibrate my actuators to stop at a certain level of applied force, but I need to know when that applied force is enough to cause pain without permanent damage. I have noticed that your pain threshold is adequately high to give me useful feedback.”  
“So your training involves applying that force on me until I yell at you to stop?”  
Phasma nodded. “Yes. Please give me your other arm. And, no.”  
“No?” Opan held out his arm.  
“I find your company... uncomplicated. I want to return to a position of relative power, to be seen to be in command. If I want to kill someone I would rather do so in battle.” Phasma gripped Opan’s forearm. “Ready?”

Twenty minutes later, Opan was back in Hux’s private medbay, up to the elbow in bacta, waiting for pain relief and sincerely regretting having brought up a highly confidential rumour concerning Brendol Hux and a beetle native to Parnassos.

Unsettled by Opan’s question about the assassination of Brendol Hux, Phasma requested a meeting with the Grand Marshal. He looked up as she strode into his office and saluted.  
“Ah, Phasma. How are the protheses working out? Good, I assume?”  
“Yes, sir.” Phasma relaxed at a nod from Hux but she did not sit down. “I have gained control over all but the most delicate movements of my fingers and I am ready to resume command of the stormtrooper training programme.”  
“That is good news,” said Hux but he shook his head. “However, I have other tasks in mind for you. And for Opan. I understand that you are quite a team.”  
“Sir?”  
“You know. Teamwork. Sharing information.” Hux’s glare was glacial. “Reporting truthfully on your missions and omitting nothing.” He sat back, hand close to his blaster. “Tell me, Phasma, when did you intend to report to me that you had stolen four slave children from the stables on Canto Bight?”  
Phasma frowned. “I brought them as recruits. You have not previously requested that I report every single cadet so I thought it an unnecessary detail.”  
“Well it might be, on an planet conquered by the FIRST ORDER!” Hux leaned forwards. “but NOT on a world that remains STUBBORNLY INDEPENDENT!” He sighed and gritted his teeth. “Perhaps I was unfair in putting you in command of this undertaking so soon after your injuries. Maybe you need a less challenging mission.”  
“Sir! I was acting in the best interests of the First Order.”  
“The First Order does not want to be accused of theft. Now, I assume the children are alive and well?”  
“Of course, sir.” Phasma’s mind raced through plausible lies. She settled on one. “Their conditioning began immediately.”  
“Well then we can’t simply put them back.” Hux sighed. “The casino owner is demanding compensation. What do you suggest?”  
“Blast it off the face of the planet, sir?”

Phasma waited for five nervous seconds before Hux’s face crinkled into a laugh.  
“If only I could, Phasma. That place is a foul pit of treachery. Well. I assume you did not request a meeting just so that I could yell at you for besmirching the First Order’s good name?”  
Phasma sighed and removed her helmet. She gave Hux a few seconds to get used again to the sight of her damaged skin and cybernetic eye.  
“I am deeply concerned about Major Opan’s ability to function. He is... unstable.”  
“Oh?” The frown that had settled on Hux’s face at the sight of Phasma’s scars deepened. “In what way?”  
“He is compromised by the Supreme Leader, sir. Anything Opan knows, Kylo Ren can find out.”  
“I am aware, Phasma. I am considering how best to bring Opan’s involvement to the Supreme Leader to an end.” Hux raised an eyebrow and looked up at Phasma. “I thought reconditioning?”  
Phasma shook her head. “It might work, but the effectiveness of reconditioning on someone who is unused to it is not guaranteed. He knows about—” Phasma stopped. “He knows about the small family matter I assisted you with before CD0922’s treachery forced me to deal with him.”

Hux sat on the edge of his seat and clenched his fists on the desk surface. Only two people were allowed to know that he and Phasma had assassinated Brendol Hux. “Are you suggesting,” he said almost inaudibly, “that I ask you to _deal with_ Opan?”  
“I would not presume to anticipate your orders, sir.”  
“Good,” said Hux after a few seconds. He sat back. “Take no action.”  
“Sir?”  
“Take. No. Action.” Hux tapped the desk with his knuckles to emphasise every word. “You will do nothing about Opan.”  
“But sir! We must—” Phasma strode forwards, a protest ready, then froze. Unable to adjust her limbs to correct for her balance, she toppled forwards and landed heavily, half over Hux’s polished bronzewood desk. She twisted her head and craned her neck to see Hux. “What have you done to me!”  
Hux held up a small device that fitted into a recess in the palm of his glove. “If you show any sign that you are prepared to disobey my direct orders, or re-interpret them to suit your own agenda, I press this control and you... hah! You stop. Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, it is I who allow you freedom of movement. Now,” Hux got up and hunkered down, face a few inches from Phasma’s. “Do we have an understanding?”  
Phasma forced her rage deep within. She gritted her teeth and gave the only possible reply.  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Excellent!” Hux smiled and stood up again, releasing Phasma from her mechanical paralysis. “Await further orders. Dismissed.”

Hux waited until Phasma had time to get clear of the corridor then went to his medbay. Opan looked up and smiled.  
“I was helping Phasma train. She broke my arm. The ‘droid gave me something for the pain. I _like_ it.” Opan called to the medidroid. “Hey, doctor ‘droid, can I have more of that?”  
The medidroid clicked and whistled to its assistant, then spoke in basic. “You have already received the maximum required dose for the level of pain relief you require. The next dose is due in three standard hours.”  
“Damnit!” said Opan with a giggle. “Armitage, you should have some too. Aah hah ha. No, you wouldn’t. Waaaay too uptight!”  
Hux accepted the insult in the spirit that it was delivered. He smiled at Opan and ordered both ‘droids to shut down. He turned back to Opan. “Well then, Tritt! What in the galaxy did you say to Phasma to make her break your arm?”  
“I... ahaha... she said she didn’t want to be your ass... assassass... person who. You know. Like me.” Opan laughed. “I said did she have any more beetles. From Parnasss... home. Like what bit old Brendol.”  
Hux laughed and shook his head. “Oh Tritt,” he said. “That wasn’t a clever thing to say at all!” He walked the last couple of steps over to Opan and put his arms around his assassin. “I really am most terribly sorry about this. You’ve been a very good assistant and I will miss you. You do understand, don’t you?”

With a flick of his wrist, Hux had his blade in his hand. Opan made no move, only sagged in Hux’s arms and frowned in confusion as he lost consciousness. Once Hux was sure Opan was dead, he leaned over and kissed his cheek, straightened up with a sigh and washed his hands, then called out to reactivate the ‘droids.  
“Medidroid! Activate protocol Hux-zero.”

At least, thought Hux as he marched the short distance to his private chambers, his uniform was dark enough not to show the stain from Opan’s blood too obviously. He shed his uniform and ordered Kayfour to have it incinerated then prepare a clean one. He got into the sanisteam cabinet and set his favourite programme: long and not too hot. His eyes closed and he reached for the bottle of luxury scented gel that had last graced the cabinet of a hotel bathroom in Canto Bight. As he soaked himself and poured a palmful of the gel, a cold draught made him turn and curse.  
“Kriff! What are you doing here?” Hux almost rolled his eyes at the stupidity of his own question, as Kylo Ren walked through the water jets, pushed him back up against the cool tiles of the enclosure wall and kissed him.  
“Mm!” Hux pushed back. “Kylo? _Now?”_  
“Mmhmm,” Ren nodded. “Now.”  
“Well then,” said Hux with a smile, massaging the gel into Ren’s hair with both hands and making it lather. “I suppose I will start at the top and work my way down. Kneel.”  
“What?” Ren scowled. “I am the Supreme Leader! I do not _kneel_ for—“  
“Oh do shut up, Kylo,” said Hux, leaning in for a gentle kiss. “I am not making a political statement in my own sanisteam. I only want to see that I wash your hair properly.”

Ren took the bottle and poured some scented gel to use on Hux. He lathered it in his hands and spread the pale foam over Hux’s skin, marvelling for a second that they were almost the same shade of near-white. He looked down at his own bare chest and realised with a little shock that he too had the pasty complexion of someone who spent time in cold starlight rather than warm sunlight. He spoke before he realised he was going to.  
“Let’s go somewhere. A planet. A warm one. Just for a day or two.”  
Hux’s hands stilled on his head and he felt Hux sigh.  
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the Supreme Leader and while, _in theory,_ you can do whatever you like, in reality you have a galaxy to rule. Until your arse is solidified onto that lump of obsidian, people will call it _Snoke’s throne_ and try to lever you off it.”  
“People.” Ren looked up at Hux’s grey eyes. “People like you?”  
“No,” said Hux, shaking his head and smiling. “You were right when you said that I will have more power if I remain loyal to my new Supreme Leader than if I attempt a coup. You are...” Hux bit his lip and Ren grinned.  
“I know what you’re thinking, Armitage. Say it.”  
“Are you reading my mind? Because—“  
“Don’t change the subject. Say it! Because I am...?”  
Hux stroked Ren’s face and wished he still had his blade, just in case. “Well,” he said, ”you are remarkably difficult to kill.”

Shower over, Hux led Ren by the hand to his bedroom. Instead of their first frantic, desperate encounter, interrupted by an urgent update from the _very_ keen Chief Petty Officer Lank Paze, they had the luxury of time. Hux was surprised to find that Ren was unsure of himself in bed, and Ren was relieved to find that Hux could be patient. Afterwards, Hux lay back on his bed with Ren’s arm heavy on his chest and Ren’s chin brushing his shoulder. Ren sighed and Hux shivered as he felt it, cool across his neck.

“I know. What you did for Opan,” said Ren quietly. “I thought you’d be... less kind.”  
“Fuck!” Hux tried to move but Ren’s arm held him. He turned his head to try to focus too-close on Ren’s eyes. “Were you... _in_ there? With Opan?”  
Ren shook his head. “No. I stayed out like you said, but I could feel something from him. He wasn’t afraid. At the end. You could have sent Phasma to do it. He expected Phasma. He was... happy to see you.”  
“No,” replied Hux with a sigh. “He was happy about his large dose of painkillers. Opan deserved my personal attention. Damnit, I have to find another assistant. Paze is good with tech but he’s not of Opan’s calibre, and Phasma’s... Well. Phasma. you know.”  
“Yes,” said Ren. “And one day she’s going to give you trouble.”  
“Ha!” Hux shook his head. “No. I have Phasma where I want her. I think she is suitably motivated to remain loyal. I have a reward for her if she completes her next mission with no deviation from my orders.”  
“Oh?” Ren let Hux shift onto his side to face him. “What makes Phasma tick?”  
“Survival,” replied Hux. “And the chance of retribution against disloyalty.”

Meanwhile Phasma waited in the freighter. She lounged in the cockpit while she had the small craft re-stocked with ration packs and had the weapons systems serviced. A tech team that included one very young aprentice in a too-big jumpsuit buzzed around the shield generators seeing what they could do to boost the lateral shielding without compromising power consumption too much. Opan would not be accompanying her on her next assignment. Of that she was sure: something in Hux’s expression told her that her mistake had been in offering to get rid of Opan and not in the sentiment that the threat of his loose words needed to be removed. Everyone _suspected,_ Phasma knew this, but nobody knew _for sure_ that she and Armitage had been the cause of Brendol’s mystery illness and eventual ugly death. Nobody was allowed to _know_. Phasma wondered how long it would be before she had to take action to prevent her own knowledge from causing her demise. Hux’s controller for her prostheses had to have a workaround and she would find it in time.

It was several hours before her comlink beeped and the holographic image of Armitage Hux smiled at her.  
“Sir?”  
“New orders, Phasma. Assemble a team of no more than three loyal, experienced stormtroopers plus yourself as commander. You will have a little target practice to begin with—take out all of the traders who offered to sell Opan resistance technology. Nothing too personal. Blast them from orbit if you can. I would like to see to it myself.” Hux’s holo-image shrugged. “But I have more pressing matters from the Supreme Leader that demand my attention. After that, I will send you whatever intel we have on the location of the rebels who escaped Crait. You are to hunt them down. Once you have located their new base, send me their coordinates immediately and stand by.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“They are mine. Understand?”  
“Of course sir. Find the rebels and await further orders.”  
“Good. Now, if you should happen to find FN2187, I appreciate that as one of your own he is a different matter. Personal. He is yours to deal with as you see fit on condition that your action does not alert the other scum.”  
Phasma smiled although Hux would not see. But he would surely hear the gratitude she forced into her voice when she said, “Sir! Thank you.”

Phasma sighed and called up stormtrooper records. She would do this for Hux and for personal revenge on FN2187, but retribution for the most personal act of treachery against her would take time and meticulous planning. Armitage Hux must not see her coming.


End file.
